


Fear the Fever, Deep in the Bones

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: College AU, Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Modern AU, city!storybrooke, this was orphaned b/c im sick of getting comments and asks asking for updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They shouldn't know one another, not at all; it isn't normal, it isn't quite right, what they've got. But he burrowed into her bones, anyway. Despite the effort she put into putting up the walls so that couldn't happen, he broke them. Broke them all down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by an anon. Was inspired to make it more than one chapter. Oh deary me. And yes, I did the title right. Other stories will be updated and more things will be written. Eventually. Pinkie swear it. Right-o.

> It wants to kill you  
> It wants to tear you apart  
> It wants to thrill you  
> This vengeful love that I've got  
> Wants to consume you  
> Then spit you out  
> I fear the fever, fear the fever  
> Can you feel it now?

— "Fear the Fever" by **Digital Daggers** **  
**[listen[here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTBTYbpHmIM).]  


* * *

 

When the year starts off, it starts like every other year has. Students – new to the campus, and those who know it like the back of their hands – they all rush to their classes. They lose sleep, bags begin forming under some of their eyes, and the parties begin almost immediately. Nothing out of the ordinary – nothing a college professor wouldn’t be used to. The air is thick and hot, rarely filled with the cool breezes from up north, the ones that tell those who have lived in this place long enough that autumn is just beginning to creep towards them.

The unbearably hot, and somewhat un-air-conditioned, campus slowly cools down, as August and September take their time dragging by – and then rushing about – and then slowing down again. It’s sometimes different, with each year, but typically, the first few months are the slowest – but the faculty – the staff – they know that, come November, December, or January, the students are going to wake up and realize that they’ve barely been paying attention to the days as they’ve dragged and sped by.

In October, the leaves are changing color, and autumn has crept in, and settled down, for now. The air is abnormally cool, for this time of year. Colder and colder breezes are sifting through campus, pushing stray papers along, scattering dead leaves. The skies have had their fill of blue and sunlight; familiar gray now nearly fills the sky entirely, as autumn sinks its teeth into the region once again, but it will wait to take a chunk out until winter has its spindly fingers around the sun’s burning neck.

It’s Wendy Darling’s, professor of literature –highly favored, though young, for a teacher – favorite time of the year. She loves the cool air – the bite of it in the early morning, when she leaves her small little house, a few miles away from the college. The colored leaves crunching underfoot, the season always feeling like it’s about to shift – at any given moment – but she knows it won’t dare to snow till later in the month of November. But, in the past, it has been known to snow on Halloween.

Wendy loves teaching, in the colder months. She likes to bundle up, put on soft, button-down sweaters with sleeves that go past her fingertips and clunky snow-boots that keep her toes warm when she’s away from the house. She likes drinking hot tea, holding her trusty thermos in her hands tightly as she talks to her students – talks with bright eyes, with _passion_. The other professors think she’s something of a delight – of a marvelous slip of a young woman – because she engages her students in what she’s teaching.

She can actually _get_ them to _listen_ to her. They don’t always take notes – they don’t always turn in their essays, but that’s okay, because they _listen_. They do the readings she assigns them, they record her lectures – about poetry, about authors, about the history of things gone idle for decades now – she talks about Poe, she talks about Bronte and Dickenson and Wilde and she’s even gone on about Suzanne Collins a few times (the students always crack grins and start discussions, whenever she does)– but whatever she says, it’s typically worth listening to. According to her students.

Wendy – Ms. Darling – is used to getting new additions to the class as the first semester crawls by – before it starts moving so fast students are wondering what in the hell happened to the unbearably hot and stickiness of the end of their summer – and the beginning of their semester – and she rarely ever loses a student. They do like her so – though, she doesn’t socialize much. She doesn’t speak to the other teachers, often, and usually goes him straight after. It could be because she’s the youngest – twenty-six, at the most, because she wanted her degrees before she could drink – because all she had ever wanted to _do_ was teach – and it could be because her students are near her age.

She goes straight home, in the evenings, once she’s cleared out the lecture hall, climbed up the stairs with her messenger bag slung over her shoulder, and across her chest, her gray windbreaker zipped up to her chin, ready to heat up some leftover Chinese before she begins simultaneously grading papers and talking to her neighbor, a New Zealand-born woman named Tink – Tinker Bell ( _what an odd name_ ) – who’s been coming over and eating leftovers with her since she moved into the house at age eighteen.

Anyway, new additions to the class usually stop filtering, typically, at the beginning of October. But it’s only a week and a half before Halloween (as a treat, she talks about Poe – makes them start discussions, assigns essays, tries and gets them to _do_ something with the information she’s giving to them from the bottom her heart) – and someone new filtered in at the beginning of class. She hadn’t paid the young man any mind – she’d ignored him, gone on teaching like she always did, though others had stared; the spotlight was not generally appreciated for newcomers in her class, as she had learned, when she had first been appointed as the professor of literature two years ago

Wendy tries to, anyway. She’s been perfecting that art, long since before she’s been teaching – since elementary, if she remembers correctly – but it’s nearly impossible. Out of the corner of her eye, she can’t see if he has a bag – or a book – or _any_ school-related object on his person. His feet are up on his desk, his arms are crossed over his chest – and there’s something _arrogant_ about him that she doesn’t think she likes.

But she tries, and when class is dismissed, and her students either rush off, lag behind to talk to their friends, or shout a question to her from the top of the stairs of the lecture hall – all very typically, and the young man comes down to her, his stride long and confident – once everyone is gone – like she half-expected of him, because _usually_ , the newcomers come down and ask her for a course description – ask her for the list of books they’ll need – anything else that comes to mind, really – and she’ll give it to them with a worn-out smile on her face.

He asks of her what she expected him to – and she hands him a list of the novels and books of poetry they’ll be discussing and are discussing at the moment (well, not _now_ , because they’re all discussing _Poe_ ). He smiles at her – but not pleasantly, not how they usually do. His mouth – it’s full of white _knives_ , shining daggers that make her briefly envision a wolf’s snapping jaws. Something in his eyes – it makes something in her gut _twist_ , but he’s gone before she can get a word out about it.

He hadn’t looked like he belonged, in her class. He’d looked like a delinquent, but not someone as green as he should be. He is _dark_ , and there something is going to go _wrong_ , she can _feel_ it. But Wendy can do nothing, but try and forget his curt words, the burning in his eyes – and the knives in his mouth.

Knives everyone else must call _teeth_.

( _Wolves_ have knives for teeth. And he – he is _not human_.)


	2. Chapter 2

It’s November before anyone can blink. Soon, nearly all the leaves have left the trees and the winds have brought crisp, clean, cold air from up north. It’s colder than it should be – colder than it’s been in in a long time, but that’s okay.

Peter’s always liked the cold. Liked it better than soft summer breezes, liked it better than gentle spring showers. The _cold_ is brisk – brittle – harsh. ( _Like him_.) It chokes the life out autumn, of whatever spirit had been left over from summer’s escapade.

It’s never bothered him before – neither have sweltering temperatures, and it’s not really a mystery to him, though, others would eye his undone leather jacket and thin shirt underneath. They would peer curiously at his cold, pale hands and wonder how they hadn’t fallen off yet – because winter had its hands around autumn’s neck, once again, and was choking the life out of it, despite the struggle it was putting up – to linger in their part of the hemisphere  for just a little bit longer, before snow started to fall from the sky and dark, gray clouds blocked the typical bright blue and the sun that hung low in the sky by the time class got out.

He’s a junior here, at this college – but he hasn’t been here longer than half a decade, unlike the majority of the people here. He only came because Felix had wanted to go here – said the programs and classes offered were the best any of the colleges around could offer. Felix, naturally, is his right hand man – they’d been friends since both had been in elementary, but both had moved to Storybrooke just after graduating high school.

He has to admit – he can see why Felix likes it. It took him some time, though – to see what the taller, lankier boy saw in this place, in the city of Storybrooke. At first, he’d disliked it – wholly, entirely – but it had taken him finally getting coaxed into signing up for some classes for him to see why this place was so renowned for its schools.

He hadn’t meant to get lost – _again_ – but he had. Felix had been most unhelpful with giving him directions, so he’d wandered into class, without anything Felix had told him he should bring (of _course_ ).

When he had meandered in, he’d noticed how the professor had noticed – or, rather, he’d noticed how she had _not_ noticed him. Which had irked him, beyond belief – because nobody simply ignored him. Not _him_. Everyone else had – everyone else _did_ , but _she_ – Ms. _Darling_ , a young slip of a woman – she couldn’t have been teaching for very long, no much older than he, at twenty-three – and it was odd, that someone only so many years his senior would be the one teaching _him_.

He thinks that’s how it starts.

He doesn’t really plan on going to her class. Peter thinks he will eventually get bored of her class – like he has with every other class Felix has urged him to take – but every time he swings his feet up on his desk, and listens and watches the professor, he doesn’t get the nagging feeling that tells him he has some place better to be than _here_. (Because he _doesn’t_.)

The young woman – curly hair, pale skin, bright eyes, and an enthusiastic smile – seems to clench her teeth when he starts throwing his pen up in the air, or idly spins it around in his hand. He thinks that he might have succeeded in getting somewhere – in getting her to _notice_ him. _That_ , he thinks, is probably why he’s still bothering to show up; he wants her to _notice_ him, like she had on his first day – with weary eyes and a tight smile – except, well, not like she had then.

No, _no_ , not like that at _all_ ; in fact, he’d _rather_ see her –

It’s getting closer and closer – Thanksgiving break – and he’s actually enjoying himself. Mostly in that one class. _Her_ class. Because he swears she looks familiar – and – also – she pretends he doesn’t _exist_ , even though the little things he does probably grate on her nerves. It’s an amusing idea – one he tests out more than once. And every time, she notices, out of the corner of her eye – almost certainly – without fail. But he never does his assignments, not really – he actually kind of likes it when she talks, because she just starks _talking_ , and she doesn’t really _stop_ – and, admittedly, he’s daydreamed about _getting_ her to shut up – preferably with a hand up her skirt, and his mouth over hers, sucking the air out of her lungs –

Yes. Yes, break will be good. Though he actually kinds himself enjoying the class, he knows it will be good. Because daydreaming about fucking your professor till she walks funny for a month, with his name of her lips and his fingers digging into her hips is just _great_ and _normal_ and _just what he needs_.

Felix knows about his – ahem, _affections_ , shall we say? – towards Ms. Darling.

It’s all rather hilarious to him.

One day, when the sun isn’t anywhere in sight, and the students have left – and that bloody New Zealander – he didn’t know her name, but she was always looking at him funny, like she _knew_ him and didn’t like him (so he’d _grinned_ at her with knives in his mouth and gotten a glare in return) – isn’t there, with her feet on Ms. Darling’s desk, and a sucker between her teeth – he goes down to her, where she’s gathering up the papers that were turned in today.

He’s been _waiting_ for this – for an opportunity like this, because he thinks he knows how he can _get_ what he wants ( _her her her_ ) – because everyone’s shuffling out of the building by now. No one visits her class, and when Tink doesn’t arrive sometime before the seven AM and lunch hour, she’s not coming in at all. Not even the other teachers speak to her – as far as he’s seen – and that’s just fine wit him.

Just giving him a better opportunity, is all _they’re_ doing.

He smiles at her, with knives for teeth – a full grin, actually – and he sees her reaction. He _sees_ that she sees him, _really sees him_ , and it make something slither up his spine.

(Makes something crawl _down_ her spine.)

She doesn’t back away – she opens her mouth, probably to ask  what he wants – if he needs anything – _because she’s a good person like that_ – but what happens next happens because Peter Pan is _impulsive_ and _greedy_ and he _wants_ what he wants – and he wants it _bad_ ; he leans forwards, swiftly – smoothly – deftly, before she can think to squeak and dart away from him (like she’s done before, when he’s passed by her too close on his way out of the room before – and it’s so amusing, how he can feel her eyes following him as he saunters out the door) his mouth swoops down on hers.

The kiss is hardly a kiss. It’s rough, and whatever comes out of her mouth, is muffled by his stealing the air from her lungs and biting her lip, before, grinning at her – a bit more dangerously, like she is a _mouse_ , and he is a _wolf_ (wolf have knives for _teeth_ , do they not?) and he leaves her clutching a hand to her throat, as she tries to remember how to breathe again. He doesn’t look back, but he doesn’t have to – to know that her cheeks are burning and it feels like victory already.

But it’s _not_ , and she makes it some sort of game to him – she doesn’t mean to, of course – but she does – and she goes out of her way to avoid him, to full-on ignore him, but knowing he is _there_ , and when she catches his eye – during a lecture – and his eyes _burn_ – her cheeks flush, just a little bit, and the words that tumble forth from her mouth are a little more jumbled for a brief moment – before she recovers and goes on like he _hadn’t_ just promised her that he _would_ win, whatever this was.

He _does_ win, though. Despite her attempts to make sure there is no game for him to play.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won't be too many chapters more (did I even say that right). Count on only there being a couple left.

Wendy’s not sure what to do – about this – about _him_ – because no one’s kissed her before – not like _that_ (with their _knife teeth_ ) – and she would never think of engaging in an activity like that – with – with a _student_ – because it’s not exactly, well, _professional_ , right? – and –

Tink gets it out of her as soon as she gets in the door, some time after Peter had left her, leaning against her desk with untrustworthy ankles – and when she does, her brow furrows and she frowns at her friend, like she _knew_ something like this was going to happen. She knows – she knows, and then she starts firing questions and statements at her – mainly at the young man who isn’t present at the moment – and it takes Wendy a moment to realize that the dark looks she thought Tinker Bell had been giving Peter Pan since she’d ambled in and seen the boy made _sense_ now – somehow – even though there is no _telling_ how she could have known something like _this_ was going to happen –

Except she didn’t. Tink tells her she hadn’t trusted him for a second. She tells Wendy to steer clear – she’ll get him kicked out of her class, if he does it again – she _knows_ the dean of the college – Regina Mills – and her wife, Emma Swan, the chief of police – and their son Henry. Tink _knows_ them – is still good friends with both of them, and, in turn, they both know (and try and look out for) Wendy – and if she tells them about this punk, this _kid_ , this evil little _shit_ –

Wendy tells her weakly that she’ll make sure it won’t happen again – that she’ll do everything in her power to make sure it can’t happen. But Tink only shakes her head, puts a hand on her shoulder, and tells her that if she _does_ do everything in her power, it just might be enough.

(Tink has _seen_ this boy before and he’s _not right, not right at all_ , and the last thing she needs right now – the last thing _anyone_ needs – is that – that _little_ – going after _Wendy_ , like she isn’t a wonderful human being – like she’s a _game_ – and she **_will not_** fucking _stand_ her best friend being treated like a _game_ that can be forgotten as soon as it’s won – and he _will win_. She remembers that much.)

She leaves, doesn’t share any of her thoughts – leaves Wendy lying awake on the couch, her feet on the armrest, with the pillow resting on her stomach, her hands lightly tracing patterns into the soft, navy fabric. She tries not to think about it – about what Tink said, about the storm raging behind her eyes ( _he can’t be quite right if Tink hates him so_ ) – about _him_ and what _happened_ and just what a _liar_ she had been when she had said that it wouldn’t  happen again – whatever _that_ was.

She tries, though. She tries not to play whatever game this is to him.

(Remember, she _tries_. But does not succeed in keeping herself away.)

It’s the Thursday before break starts. She’s humming softly to herself, with a light smile on her face, tucking her hair behind her ears while she tidies up her desk – delaying her inevitable walk home, because, being in a knee-length skirt, leggings, a blouse, and a windbreaker don’t really protect her against the cold. And it has gotten _cold_ outside.

(Autumn lies dying in the gutter, while winter stands over its body, laughing as the cold sinks into the bones of even the most hardy of Storybrooke’s citizens.)

Wendy’s wrapped up in her thoughts – in her plans, to bring Tink to go to her family’s house – John and Michael think her friend amusing at best, and her parents – well, they think their daughter’s best friend _vulgar_ , typically – and she’s thinking about cooking – and she needs to call them, and talk to Tink, to make sure she _is_ coming over – before Tink can disappear to go to an unsteady family reunion (Tink never talks about her family because she doesn’t _consider_ them her family because _Wendy_ is her family and her brothers are like _her_ brothers even if Mr and Mrs Darling dislike her to some extent) – when she hears someone – _shit, shit, shit_ – clear their throat behind her.

Wendy lets out a tiny squeak – because she has been caught off _guard_ , and, by god, _she_ should have known this was going to happen –

She turns around, quickly, nearly knocking off a stack of to-be-graded papers off her desk in doing so, and she feels like her lungs are suddenly starved of air and her lips have been set on fire because Peter is _looking_ at her like she’s – like he –

Wendy flashes him a tight smile, and begins to edge away from him. “Can I help you?” she asks, because that’s what professors _do_ ( _oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no)_ while putting the papers in her bag and zipping it up, with a little too much force. His eyes follower her movements – they go from her unsteady hands fiddling with the zipper, to the way her eyes glance at the stairs – because she can _hear_ Tink telling her to _run away as fast as she can_ (because he is not _human_ he is the humanoid monster she’s never hoped to meet – he has _knives_ for teeth and sharp claws instead of blunt nails) –

Something in the young man’s eyes darken – and she swallows, visibly, _nervously_ , and is about to dart past him and sprint up the stairs for everything that she’s worth – but before she can even step to the right and around, his hand reaches out – clamps around her wrist, and suddenly, he’s right in front of her – he is _right there –_ and she _squeaks_ again, as he backs her up against the front of her desk. He’s grinning with shining knives in his mouth – white knives everyone else thinks are _teeth_ – and he leans forward, as his other hand skims over her hip.

( _She does not does not **does not** feel a shiver slither down her spine._)

“You can help me,” he says, his eyes darkening – with something she doesn’t want to see – with a lust that she’s never seen in anyone’s eyes before – “you can _help_ me, _Wendy_ ,” he says, taking a pause, to duck his head, so his lips are at the shell of her ear, ( _he got her name out of her days ago and she barely remembers how he got her to stammer it out to him_ ), and she hopes that someone will come in and _see_ this – but alas, no one does.

She’s no idiot. She knows there’s – she knows that whatever _this_ is, it’s become a part of her – she can’t _rid_ herself of something coiling in her belly from time to time – and she can’t help it when her cheeks flush, when he catches her eye, and waggles his eyebrows at her ( _oh god he knows exactly what he’s doing_ ) and – and he’s been doing _more_ than just that, though.

He’s been beginning to talk in class – talking to _her_ , talking to the other students – and, even though he doesn’t do his work – even though she never sees him with even a scrap of paper on him, or a book covering his face – he’s insightful – but there’s also something _very, very wrong_ – she can tell – she can _feel_ it, even though everyone else just seems to be oblivious to it – and that’s not all, because if he passes her, he’ll let his fingers skim across the small of her back of the soft edge of her hipbone and –

His lips swooping down on hers, teeth and tongue catching her by surprise, snap her out of her thoughts – and she lets out a shriek into his mouth, because one – her _lip_ is bleeding – and, two – _his hand is trailing up her thigh, pushing her pleated gray skirt up, up, up_ –

“Peter,” she breathes, weakly, and his hand stops – his breath hitches – and he looks down at her, with a cocked eyebrow, but he doesn’t move away.

“You – I –” she can’t seem to find it in herself to find the words in her jumbled, scattered mind; heat is racing through her veins, and she feels a bit lightheaded ( _but she’s never felt this good before never never never_ ) and she can feel her cheeks burning ( _this isn’t quite right it isn’t good what is she doing she needs to leave before she can’t bring herself to turn away from this young man with knives for teeth and claws for nails and a darkness in his eyes that tells her she ought to stay away_ ), and she winces – but doesn’t move away.

(Doesn’t _want_ to move away.)

He waits, a few more seconds – she’s breathing hard – before his hands continue traveling up her thigh, his nails dragging along the inside of her legs – and she shudders against him, her spine stiffening as something _curls_ around her spine as goose flesh erupts on her covered legs.

His mouth is at her ear, and his breathing is ragged as he keeps his other hand pressed against the small of her back ( _when did he remove it from her wrist? How could she not have noticed?_ ), fingers splayed and palm _warm_ ( she can feel it through her wrinkled, white blouse ) – as his fingers tug her leggings _down_ – just so he has enough room to find her underwear, and slip his fingers past her, and –

The phone on her desk rings, startling her, but he doesn’t move. He stays where he is, with his fingers just _barely_ brushing against the apex of her thighs – _she’s pressing her lips together so hard they’re white because if he **hears** her she’s done for she knows he is_ – and her hand scrambles backward, fumbling clumsily as his lips plan a kiss behind her ear (making her _shudder again_ ), but she finds it, and begins to draw her arm back to her, when she feels the scrape of teeth against her skin – and she nearly drops the phone back onto her desk, but she manages to wriggle her arm between them and flip it open, pressing it to her ear.

“Hello?” her voice is wobbly – but calm – and if she plays her cards just right, she can get by as just sounding tried ( _why isn’t she taking this opportunity to slip away? Why isn’t she using this to leave him? Why can’t she bring herself to **move**?) – _ and he waits, the hand on her back moving lower – slipping under the hem of her shirt, and settling on the bare skin of her back ( _her skin is on fire it **burns** for him and she cannot help but imagine that she is autumn and he is winter, playing a new sort of game – a wild one_ ).

“Hey, Wendy!” It’s Tink. She sounds falsely cheerful – which is never, _ever_ a good thing. She can sense her friend’s dark, brooding mood, even from _here_. (She can almost forget about the body pressing up against hers.)

“Hello,” she says, trying to ignore the way his lips scrape against the shell of her ear – how something spins itself around her spine, curling around the vertebrae and settling in there – “did you need anything?”

“I’m just letting you know that I’m being forced into leaving town – early.”

Oh. The reunion.

_Tink’s never liked those. She hates hates hates her biological family_.

“So – you won’t be back – ”

“Till next Friday,” Tink says, “and I’m sorry, Wendy – I am – but I’m getting on the plane, soon, and I’ve got to go. I’ll try and keep in touch while I’m _there_.”

(She won’t call it _home_. It’s never _been_ home to her, and Wendy feels a pang of sympathy for her friend.)

“Call me,” she breathes into the phone, feeling a dark, painful prickling of loss inside of her, before Tink hangs up, and the cell phone is on the floor before she can blink because his fingers are _moving_ and she lets out a high-pitched, little sound (momentarily forgetting that she’ll probably now not go see her family – because it’s so much easier to be with them with the New Zealander at her side – momentarily forgetting that, for the first time in some years, she is going to be spending break _alone_ , in town – most likely)  – and she can see him grin in the dark of the lecture hall – as his fingers move her underwear out of the way – as they _move_ , and, one slips _inside_ – she doesn’t remember anything like this ever feeling _this good_ –

“ _Why_?”

The word slips out before anything else can happen, and he pauses, looking down at her with some form of vague amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Why, _what_?”

“Why – why _this_ – why, _me_ –”

Peter shake his head at her, laughing, and he cuts her off by using the hand splayed across the smooth, creamy skin of her back to push her forward – so she is flush again – and her lungs forget how to take in air, as a skeletal finger slips in, to where it joins his hand, and _twists_ – making her cry out at the unexpected jolt of – of _whatever that was_ (she’s not a virgin but she can’t remember at all feeling like _this_ , like a something shot up her spine and wound itself around something deep inside her in the process) and he speaks into her ear, his voice soft, but dangerous.

( _Wolves have knives for teeth. **He** has knives for teeth._ )

“It’s _obvious_ ,” he says, twisting his index finger again, crooking it in the opposite direction, making her muffle a mewl between whitening lips as her forehead falls against his jacket-clad shoulder ( _he smells of ashes and a darkness she does not want to name_ ), “I _want_ you. I want _you_ , just _you_ – _over and over_.”

He slips another finger inside of her ( _so easily, she’s embarrassingly damp at the apex of her thighs – but he doesn’t seem to mind_ ), and begins moving them in slow, fluid motions. Her fingers grasp his shirt, twisting the fabric as something begins to coil at the base of her spine – as something begins to writhe inside of her gut (as if some muscle is _dancing_ because of his touch and all she remembers from this sort of thing is stretching and _pain_ and this is _so much better_ even though it’s not _right_ because _he’s_ not), and she whispers a plea into his shoulder – she can’t remember if she said _faster_ , or something else, but he beings to twist and crook and turn them – with fluid, swift motions – and he has her, whispering into his shoulder, begging for something she doesn’t know the name of (she can’t remember the name of the kind of pleasure she might or might not have felt before) – and, when she thinks he’s perched her precariously on some sort of ledge, and she thinks he’s about to shove her over – with teeth scraping at the sensitive, raised flesh behind her ear and the quivering inside her stomach – _oh god_ – but he pulls away, and she feels something like loss as he looks at her, staring at him ( _glaring_ ), because he has her _aching_ and he had her _moaning_ and _mewling_ into his shoulder, with her fingers desperately trying to find something to hold onto – his shit, his jacket – and he grins at her with all the triumph in the world.

He leans forward, just long enough to give her a kiss – if you could call it that – and place on her lips, teeth and tongue at all – sucking the air right out of her lungs – before leaving her there, leaving her alone in the lecture hall, in the dark, with her still aching, with her knees still wobbly, and she wants to _scream_.

For one, she’s an _idiot_ , and two – _two_ , she finds herself wanting to go after him, but she does not trust her legs.

Wendy watches Peter go.

A ghost of an impulse telling her to run after him and _pounce_ lingers on the fringes of her mind, but that is not this life, but it’s too faint for her to examine – to think about – because all she can think about now is trying to regain some semblance of her composure and she’s trying _so hard_ to remember how to get the _air_ back in her lungs, as something _lower_ aches for skeletal, twisting fingers and a mouth at her ear, pressing harsh kisses to her skin.

The wolf has gotten the mouse to play the game. So much for her trying not to – so much for her attempts in trying to avoid getting _involved_ with – with whatever this was.

( _she should have known this would happen_.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably second or third to last chapter.

It’s after hours, and Thanksgiving break has officially begun, because most students have packed their bags, locked up their dorms, and have driven off – to family, to friends – and Wendy – _Wendy Darling_ – sits in her empty, darkening lecture hall, pleasantly humming and grading essays with a somehow-still-working red pen, its cap between her teeth as her eyes scan each word her students typed – probably all in the last few days (even more likely last night – she’s come to find that the majority of her students are procrastinators, and they always amuse her – that they can do eight hours’ worth of work in half an hour, and a half an hour’s work in eight).

It doesn’t really bother her – not really – because , this year, no one’s failing – which is good, because that means she can keep all of them until the semester is over – and then she gets a new group of students – and syllabus week will consist, in January, predictably, of few students filtering in with darting eyes, a frown on their face, or a furrowed brow – and fewer filtering out. She’s seen it before – she graduated from this very place herself – and it’s quite an exciting time.

All it really means is that she, like the students, don’t have to do that much (except, you know, plan _lessons_ and such, but still).

Her eyes grow bleary, from time to time, and she has to blink, several times (she’s so _glad_ that she already has her lectures planned out – everything sorted – so she can have a nice, relaxing week of doing absoloutely nothing productive) – and she reads over the little comments she put on the paper, with a tiny smile. The student who wrote this – their analyzation skills – their character and plot perception and interpretation – it’s quite impressive, she has to admit – whoever wrote this did this without any grammatical or spelling errors (not even a misplaced _apostrophe_ ) and she goes to write the grade at the top of the paper when she catches the name written – in a messy scrawl – in the margin, and she nearly chokes – but the pen cap nearly slips from her teeth.

_Peter Pan._

She shakes her head, feeling the tips of her ears burn as she quickly tucks it away into the pile of papers ready to have their grade entered into the computer system – and begins on the next. She finishes the last few, a bit distracted by the antsy feeling that’s somehow entered her bones – _hadn’t she just been as calm and content as could be_?

She puts them into a black, plastic  folder, and puts it in her bag, and leans back in her chair. She looks around, feeling just a bit lonely ( _just a tiny bit_ ) – wishing that that she and Tink could have, at least, spent the holidays together – watching corny movies, or horror films, clinging to each other, or falling off her couch laughing as tears ran down their faces and aches sprung from their bellies that could last for nearly an hour. They would eat ice cream, out of the tub, fight over the last bite of chocolate – and then proceed to throw the carton at the other’s head.

It would be fun – if Tink were staying – but Wendy knows that it’s not her place to call her back. It’s Tink’s time – it’s Tink decision, ultimately, even though it _appears_ she doesn’t have that much of a choice in – well, family matters, sometimes.

She shakes her head again, slouching in her padded chair. A sigh slips past her lips.

She can’t seem to think of anything nice today, can she?

Wendy sits there, as the last bits of daylight filter in through the narrow windows of the lecture hall. It seems big, with just her – a short slip of a woman, really – slouching in her chair, with a frown on her face. She feels like she is going to be rather _bored_ this week –

Something bangs against up the stairs – and the jolts, her head twists (her neck cracks, but she’s too startled to wince) –

But it’s only the janitor.

The older man frowns down at her, and holds up a mop. She grimaces, gets out of her chair, heads up the stairs, darts around him – and leaves, without glancing back.

For one, she _loathes_ the smell of chemicals – and cleaning products – and she’s not fond of when they’re (typically) combined – and, two, the janitor just might be creepy – he doesn’t talk to anyone – never smiles – so she gets out of his way. He’s been there longer than she has – and he treats everyone the same.

It’s a mystery she’s okay with leaving unsolved, to be honest.

So she lets the pepper-and-salt haired man do his job, and she finds herself walking down the stairs,  and wandering in the direction of library – because it’s where she used to go, on the weekends she didn’t want to go see her family – but she knows that, some time ago, they closed  it at night – something about someone damaging property, she doesn’t remember what happened two years ago anyway – so she walks past the doors and turns down a hall –

And smacks right into Peter Pan.

They fall to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs, her stuttering her apologies, while scrambling away from him and picking herself off the floor, as he does the same. She doesn’t know what to say – what to do – as he seems to survey her, behind shuttered eyes – and before any kind of awkward silence can start, she starts heading past him ( _Tink would be proud_ ), but then she feels fingers curling into her hipbone, stopping her dead in her tracks.

( _Tink would be **murderous**_.)

People – they’re supposed to run away from wolves – keep their distance, because wolves are unpredictable – wild – like _him_ – and she –

“Not even a hello?” he asks, his voice quiet in the empty hall – and she’s barely aware that he’s hovering closer and closer to her, with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile hiding his knife-teeth. “After the other night –”

She feels her cheeks redden.

He doesn’t continue with what he was going to say. Instead, he slides his fingers down – slip up the hem of her shirt – and she jolts away, at his cold hands, whirling around to glare at him.

“I can’t – ”

“ _Wrong_ ,” he says, staying still, watching her – carefully.

“I _won’t_ , then,” she starts, but he shakes his head at her.

“You already _have_ ,” he says, and his eyebrows waggle at her ( _TInk would beat him dead_ ). Her ears burn, and she scowls – before swiftly turning on her heel, heading back to the lecture hall – which, surely, must be empty now? – and she doesn’t have to look behind her to know that he’s following, closely.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asks, not looking at him – wiping her clammy hands on the fabric covering her thighs.

“Like where?”

“On _holiday_ ,” she clarifies, trying her hardest not to roll her eyes – trying to forget he’s _right_ there – and she hears him snort.

“ _Hardly_.”

“But – ”

She feels her body being twisted around _after_ the hot mouth swoops down on hers – and the cry that escapes her as tongue and teeth come crashing down is swallowed up as his hands rest on her hips, his fingernails surely making little crescent moons in the smoothness of her skin there – and it takes all of her will to pull away, breathing hard, and he _laughs_ at her.

“You _have_ ,” he chortles, “you’ve given _in_.”

She can hear something in his voice – like the triumph she saw, in his eyes, when he’d first – uh –

But it’s _more_ , this time – and she can hear arrogance there, too.

“ _Peter_ – ”

He shakes his head, and laughs again, and before she can blink, there is a hand, slithering up her thigh – deft fingers dragging the nails up the smooth, creamy skin – _(oh_ ) – she tries so _hard_ not to let the shudder crawl down her spine and into her belly, and a cold wall meets her back as fingers push past her underwear –

“You knew this was a game,” he says, “I don’t know how you knew, but you _knew_ , and you must _know_ that by now, I’ve _won_ ,” his words fall from his lips, too readily, too gleefully, as an index finger slips inside of her and _twists_ –

Something caught between a mewl and a squeak escape her throat, and he smiles into her hair as he begins sliding and rubbing and _twisting_ – and, too soon are her hands finding his leather jacket and clutching at it, like he’s the only thing that’s keeping her mind inside her head ( _he loves this game so_ ), and a few, breathy pleas – almost inaudible – pass the barrier of her lips (she’s been trying so hard not to make a sound) when he slows his finger down – waits until she’s whispering _“please, please, please,_ ” to slip in another finger – and suddenly pull out.

She frowns at him – and her hands go to swat him, but he’s dropped to his knees before her arm can leave her body, muttering “I _win_ ” before winking. An indignant little sound comes out of her mouth when she sees that he’s rolling up her skirt, bunching it up at her hips – when he brings his head _closer_ and –

Teeth scrape against the inside of her left thigh, and her hands scramble at the wall behind her, trying, desperately, to hold onto something – anything – before she can no longer hold herself up.

She startles when she feels his _teeth_ and his _lips_ and his _tongue_ do things to her womanhood that he does not do to her mouth – he kisses her there, differently – and it has her writhing, as his fingers dig into her hips, keeping her still – as his mouth finds a little bundle of nerves that send shudders wracking through her body. Her muscles clench in the pit of her stomach as a particularly long drag over the bundle of nerves with his teeth and a hand ( _when had it left her hipbone?_ ) dragging its nails down the inside of her legs – making her flesh quiver under his cold fingers and his smoldering lips –

Something – she thinks it might be the way he takes the nub of nerves in his teeth and _pulls_ – making her _scream_ – makes the tension – or whatever’s been coiling up inside of her – _snap_. The shriek tumbles forth from her lips as her muscles spasm as his hand shoots out to grab her other hip as her body slowly, slowly, begins a boneless heap of flesh with whispers of the aftershock of her orgasm _(the wolf caught his prey got it to scream as much as he pleased_ ) flit through her body, as she slumps against the wall, breathing hard.

“I win,” he says – and she scowls, weakly trying to push him away from her.

“Fine,” she says, her voice wobbly ( _Tink would send him straight off to hell for this_ ), “you won – ” ( _she doesn’t think he did_ ) “now _go away_.”

He shakes his head at her, after throwing back his head and laughing. “No, darling,” he says, his mouth at her ear, “this is not _over_ – and, even if it is, I’ve got to _fuck you first_.”

Something twists inside of her – as he steps away – smirking.

“I –”

“You like me.” He says.

She glares at him. _Where_ on earth did _this_ –

Something in his eyes winks at her – a light that’s darker than she’s seen before – and she shakes her head, profusely. “No,” she starts, “no, no,”

“I’ll prove it,” he says, “I’ll _get_ you to prove it to me.” He smirks at her, takes her by the wrist and begins to pull in the direction she came from.

She opens her mouth to tell him to _go away_ , that this – this was just some big mistake ( _lie_ ) – that she _hates_ him (she doesn’t, but he’s – how can she like _him_?) but the look he sends over her shoulder – all sharp teeth, grinning lips, and eager eyes – she feels something in her belly twist.

_Oh, dear_.


End file.
